


A Burglar in the Kitchen

by i_am_therefore_i_fight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sherlock returns, bearing an olive branch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_therefore_i_fight/pseuds/i_am_therefore_i_fight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three years, two months, ten days, thirteen hours, fifty-eight minutes, and twenty-six seconds since the death of Sherlock Holmes. John Watson awakens to the sound of footsteps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Burglar in the Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr at the URL http://i-am-therefore-i-fight.tumblr.com/post/62735135721/midnight-snackage.
> 
> Prompt was: "just write a return fic."

It’s been three years, two months, ten days, thirteen hours, fifty-eight minutes, and twenty-six seconds since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson awakens to the sound of footsteps.

He’s reaching for the pistol under his pillow before he knows he’s awake, already straining for a hint of the intruder’s identity–only one set of footsteps, unhurried and regular, but that doesn’t mean another assailant isn’t keeping watch by the door–

He rolls out of bed, crouching on his good leg, and lopes to the closed door, pausing beside it to listen again. He judges the intruder to be somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, which makes him frown. What could a burglar want in the kitchen? A midnight snack, perhaps?

Pushing the door slowly open and praying the burglar doesn’t hear it creak, he makes his way down the darkened hall and pauses again where it opens into the living area. He can see the light from the refrigerator illuminating a dark figure standing in the kitchen, a tall, narrow figure so instantly familiar that it takes him a moment to place it, the way it would take you a moment to recognize your own face if you saw it unexpectedly.

“Sherlock?” he breathes, lowering his pistol.

The figure turns, unruffled. “Hello, John.”

Straightening, John reaches over to flip on the light.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, tucking his hands into the pockets of his long, dark coat. “Hello.”

He’s like an apparition, as fresh-faced and bright-eyed as the last time John saw him–well, not the  _last_ last time, but the last time John saw him alive and well. The past years have had no apparent wear on him, his marble facade as untouched as it ever was.

John’s mind is roaring with mixed feelings. On the one hand, _Sherlock is here! Sherlock is alive! He’s alive and he’s here!_ On the other hand,  _I must be dreaming. Or this is a hallucination. I’ve finally cracked. Gone right ‘round the bend._ And on the other other hand,  _How dare he look so unaffected when I’ve been suffering every moment for three years and two months and ten days and fourteen hours?_ And on the first foot,  _Is he_ snacking _? Why didn’t he grab a bite on the way? He’s been gone three years, I don’t think popping over to the deli for a sandwich would’ve taken too much longer._ _  
_

“What are you doing in the icebox?” is what comes out of his mouth.

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, then turns and opens the refrigerator again to pull something out. It’s pale and glints in the light and for a moment John thinks it’s another skull.

Turning and offering him the object, Sherlock explains, “I brought milk.”


End file.
